


The Major Lift

by Semblio



Category: Elder Scrolls
Genre: Alinor, Altmer - Freeform, Gen, Mede Empire, Thalmor, The Beautiful - Freeform, glass armonica
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-06
Updated: 2019-11-06
Packaged: 2021-01-23 22:01:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21327355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Semblio/pseuds/Semblio
Summary: Some of you guys are alright, don't go to the recital tonight.





	The Major Lift

The curtain rises, revealing a young mer adjacent to an armonica. He bows to his instrument, turns, bows to the crowd, presents himself. Young as he is, he has mercifully few names of his own, but introducing his instructors and proximate ancestors takes a dreadfully long time. You’re tempted to reach for your flask—but that would be indecorous. Finally, he finishes, bows again, and takes his seat. He spins up the armonica, immerses his hands in the glowing bowls on either side of his stool, withdraws them, reaches forward, and begins to play.

The prime- and counter-melodies are nothing you haven’t heard before—π to three hundred thousand digits. It’s the rest you have trouble with. According to the pamphlet that was enclosed in your invitation, the intervals encode an exegesis upon the Phynasteric _Discourses_. You’re not getting a single semitone of it, and resign yourself to skipping the after-party (and, tragically, canapes). The risk of someone important and opinionated asking what Man’s humble representative makes of the argument is too great. Unnervingly, the musician seems to have noted your presence. His eyes ought to be locked at an angle of formal obeisance, but keep finding yours. True, you stand out, probably the only smooth-browed face among thousands, the only one with the Diamond studding their coat, but couldn’t he look elsewhere?

Somewhere around the one hundred thirty-five thousandth note, you hear a low rumble in the distance. Surely not a thunderstorm? The rain should have been scheduled for another day. A few moments later, you begin to hear—a voice? A mob? A moment later and the cacophony beings to resolve itself. No, not a mere mob. More music, an entirely apraxic sort, and getting closer. Amidst the din, you can clearly make out a few bagpipes and euphoniums, along with the glow of magelight over the lip of the amphitheater. The crowd around you is stirring disrespectfully, though the performance continues. A few more moments, and the interlopers come into view. Mer, one and all, but with gaudy patchwork clothing, faux Diamond standards held alongside Reacher totems and—daringly—a string of defaced ancestral banners crowned by an impaled eagle. Others hold cutlery, pots, boat hooks. A few—but _enough_—hold crossbows. They’re singing, now, over their cacophony, something about “_marchin’ t’ Vin’sel, marchin’ t’ Vin’sel!”_ Clearly something from Nibennion, something unwelcome, something only the Beautiful could appreciate tonight.

In the crowd, a few hands reach for scabbarded hips or armpits, a few more erupt in light, as off-duty something-or-others consider action. The lights swiftly disappear as they rethink the numbers, and nobody stands. The musician ceases playing as the Beautiful take the stage. They surround him, arrange themselves into a mock orchestra, playing all the while. The first washboard makes an impressive but futile attempt at guiding his fellows into syncopation. One of the ramekin-players blows you a kiss. And the musician’s found you again, fixes you with a glare.

Suddenly, a quintet of mer rise up from the first row. The tenors aim crossbows at them. Simultaneously, the musician grabs his bowls, dumps them over the armonica, reaches forward, makes contact, and—

_stop stop no please no no no no stop please no no please please please please_

—when the world stops spinning, you find yourself still seated, the musician still glaring at you. He’s standing, now. The Beautiful lay scattered around him, clutching at their throats, blood pouring from their eyes and ears. The musician is bloodied, too, red rivulets falling from the mangled stumps of his fingers. He glances down, finds one of the Diamond standards, kicks it, and returns his eyes to you. The crowd shifts, craning their necks to follow his gaze, find you seated at the back. Diamond-studded. You gulp.


End file.
